The Long Walk Alternate Ending
by tyrannsauroswrex
Summary: An alternate ending to the Long Walk by Stephen King.


Garraty's bare feet pounded the pavement as he chased down. Who? McVries, Gribbins, Baker? The crowd surged and cheered but his ears were deaf to its praise. His lungs screamed from far away but Garraty ran on, ignoring his body's protests. One left to walk down. He slowed. Rule 13.

One left one left one left right left right left pick'em up put'em down up down up down.

Ray's eyes were bloodshot and glazed, his hair was lank. The Walk continued. Behind him, the Major's posture slouched slightly as the halftrack turned and followed 47 down the road. The crowd was hushed, a confused excited murmur rolled through it as they closed the distance.

"Raymond Garraty, number 47, you've walked them all down. Congratulations. You can stop," said the same voice that had warned and ticketed 99 boys these past five days. He waved them off. No cars on the road, you fool. You'll get ticketed for sure. He laughed a short, harsh laugh; it hurt his head but he couldn't help it. It was funny. He strained his eyes forward, searching for. Who? Abe, Parker, Olson? The figure beckoned him on, a sweetly sick smile on its shaded face. Oh god, he looked like he could walk forever. Walk to Boston, to Florida. On my grave. Dance on my –

Barkovitch. It was Barkovitch. Garraty could make out his fucking yellow rain cap. He looked so strong. Built like a moose mamma.

Garraty walked on.

He looked at his watch. 8:15. Morning or night? He hadn't heard any warnings called out in a while. Would be harder to walk down Scramm.

"Pete?" he said, though the sound barely reached his own ears. 61 wouldn't hear him from way up there. Garraty began to cry, his tears left streak marks on his haggard cheeks. Behind him, the halftrack followed. The crowd was completely silent now, no longer threatened to eatusupeatusup. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Been hungry? Garraty looked down at his food belt. Where were his shoes?

The Major looked down at the soldier with the blond hair and nodded. The soldier got out his carbine and leveled it at Garraty's chest, then at his head. The Major shook his head no – Garraty's death wouldn't be quick, he would make sure of it.

The gap between Garraty and the figured slowly closed as his tired feet trudged on. So close now, Garraty reached a wavering hand out to grasp the figures arm and turn him around–

A shot roared out from behind him, and he looked down at his stomach. There was a hole and his shirt, stained with dirt and sweat, was slowly becoming stained with his own blood. It felt hot, sticky, and smelled like iron. He half turned toward the halftrack when he heard the figure speak. It called his name, quietly and with multiple voices. Scramm, Baker, Olson, McVries. They were all there, walking around him, but they weren't the husks they had been. They were full of life, smiling even. Garraty smiled too, his lips cracked and bleeding.

The second shot rang out, even louder than the first. His arm was hit just above the elbow. Bits of flesh tore away and the heat in his stomach spread. His vision blurred and darkened while his friends walked on. They beckoned to him, called for him to keep walking. He could hear his heart in his ears, could feel his life ebbing away like the ocean he'd never seen. He had been afraid to die before, but now he couldn't remember why. Life only offered the walk, but death had his friends, peace and an escape from the Major's cold stare. He walked after the others, picking up speed. He was limping and his arm lay dead at his side. The blood on his shirt spread and left a trail for the Major to follow. His feet scuffed the road, and he almost fell.

Behind him, the Major and the blond soldier looked after him, though the soldier looked uncertain. Garraty was dying, and not just from the bullets – he was spent and crazy, surely this wasn't necessary. The Major nodded again, his expression remained unchanged as another bullet ripped through Garraty's left leg. His gait suffered but still he didn't stop.

A smile touched Garraty's lips and he was openly crying. McVries and Olson held out their hands for him and he could almost reach them. A few more feet now and he could be rid of this awful road. He reached out his arm and grasped McVries hand. His hand was rough and calloused but not unpleasant, and the scar on his cheek was gone.

Raymond Garraty, number 47 of the Long Walk cried as he fell dead in the road. A pool of blood collected under his body, shinning in the twilight. His shirt was tattered, his feet were bruised and swollen. He had a ghost of a smile on his face, and looked like the 16 year old boy who had entered the walk five days ago. Garraty continued to walk on with McVries at his side, his arm casually slung over his shoulders. He was full, he was rested, and he was happy. They turned and watched as the halftrack reached his empty body. They watched as the blond soldier got out, looking even more uncertain, and began to unzip a body bag. They even watched as the crowd screamed and exploded with fury of being robbed their champion. They watched as the Major was pelted with empty soda cups, shoes, cameras, and eventually engulfed in the mass of angry spectators. They heard screams silenced by gunshots.

They turned around and looked forward toward the sun setting on the horizon. They walked on at a comfortable pace and talked and laughed while chaos ensued behind them


End file.
